Obsession is a Purpose
by NineShadows
Summary: She tries being who she was before but the push-and-pull is too confusing and she's losing sight of her aloofness. He knows it's selfish, she deserves better; but to give her up is unthinkable.  Fenris/F!Hawke
1. Prologue:  Quia Macula Est

**Mini A.N.:** I am new to writing for this fandom, so I hope I don't mess this up too badly. Yes, I know this premise has been done already, but everyone has a different interpretation, and this is mine. For a more eloquent author's note, please go here: **nineshadows . livejournal . com / 13410 . html **for a Long and Ranty chapter note. (Cut, paste, and remove extra spaces, thank you!)

Disclaimer: Dragon Age II, Fenris, Marian, and the gang are all Bioware's shinies. Anything beyond the kiss and fade to black at the wall comes from my demented imagination. All in good fun, not for profit, etc.

Reviews are my daddy, and I am an orphan. Many thanks in advance. I've been away from for a while, so this formatting business has me tearing at my hair. My apologies for the repeated updates.

**Prologue: Quia Macula Est**

His posture is deceptively casual; his torso leans to the right, left hand braced over his knee, right elbow resting on his thigh, feet spread wide before him as he pretends to scrutinize the articulation of his gauntlet. His shoulders are too rigid, and she can see from her vantage point at the doorway the telltale ticking of a muscle in his jaw. Surprised at his seeming lack of awareness, she clicks her nails against the doorjamb, purposely alerting him to her presence. His head shoots up and he straightens up on the bench when he sees her move into the dimly lit vestibule. He is on his feet in one fluid movement, no less graceful for the obvious skittishness in his demeanor.

"I've been thinking about-" his solemn voice stalls for a fraction of a second, "what happened… with Hadriana."

Something about the way he can't seem to look her in the eye has her thinking he meant to say something different. But then he turns to face her fully, and whatever it might have been doesn't matter because there are too many things he could have said, and she knows better than to pull at the wrong thread. With Fenris, that is often too easy to do.

"You and I don't always see eye to eye," his voice is thick with a weariness that goes beyond the physical hardships of recent days. "But that doesn't mean you deserve my anger."

He pauses. His shoulders flex briefly, and he shifts, takes a step in her direction, then quickly takes one back. He's again looking at a point over her shoulder. A second goes by, and he angles his face up, squares his shoulders and tilts up his chin.

"I… owe you an apology," Fenris declares in a grave voice, briefly meeting her eyes. His posture is stern, and it reminds her that it may be the first time since his escape that he acknowledges accountability for another's feelings.

She shakes her head and takes a step toward him, "I had no idea where you went," his immediate retreat makes Marian halt and reach out with words instead, "I was concerned."

"I needed to be alone," he replies, avoiding her gaze again, obviously uncomfortable with her overture.

His lips press into a thin, rigid line and she wonders if it is the apology, or the memory of their latest misadventure that has left a bad taste in his mouth. Marian hopes that it's the latter, because the idea that he finds their friendship a chore stings… too much. Fenris uses his bitterness like a shield and blade, and her patience is wearing just a bit thin. She is starting to tire of his deflections, of rehashing how pivotal a role that hag Hadriana played in his life. She is tired of hearing about every waking torment the magister inflicted on him, how she hounded his sleep.

She hates the passion that hatred ignites in his voice because it makes every sentence he says sound like a play on words to her, it makes the intensity in his eyes look like a completely different thing from murder when he whispers, "The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now… I couldn't let her go. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

An unpleasant sensation stirs at the bottom of her gut, and she's frank enough about her feelings to admit jealousy may be coloring her perception a bit. He has wrapped himself up in so much secrecy and distance that it gives fuel to her imagination, and sometimes, Isabela and Varric's taunts don't seem so far fetched. He had admitted to her that he'd had no intimacy with anyone since his escape and could not remember anything before the ritual that branded the lyrium into his skin... But in between? She swallows to clear the thick knot that has formed in her throat. It bothers her that more than hatred and scars may well shackle Fenris to his past. It bothers her more that he doesn't seem to want to let go, so she bites back.

"You clearly weren't thinking about finding your family when you did it," her tone is clipped, a sharp barb for his obvious rebuff to her initial overture of concern.

Inevitably, they argue. She has managed to offend him once more with her lack of understanding for his all consuming fury, and he has managed to deflect every signal she has been launching, as vivid and colorful and brilliant as any of Bethany's fireballs.

The set of his shoulders has lost its defensive edge and instead he squares off against her. He is not much taller than she, but he uses every millimeter of his advantage to look down on her. The temperature seems to drop in the space between them.

"Why can't I grasp something so simple?" He drawls and for the first time during their exchange he closes the distance between them.

She is pinned by the glacial gleam in his eyes and she knows… he has been listening all along. He looks down at his hands, glares at the invisible stain defacing them.

"It's a sickness, this hate!" He spreads his arms out to the sides, exasperated, "This dark growth inside me that I can't get rid of. And they put it there!"

Hawke hears the subtext; _'There is no room for anything else.'_ And it breaks her heart because it means she will never have all of him, even after he has hunted down and killed every one of his tormentors.

He sighs; his anger draining away during their brief silence, defeated by the weight of everything he can't let go, and everything for which he dare not hope. He lowers his head and his shoulders droop as he turns from her and takes a step toward the exit.

"Ah, this… isn't why I came here."

She knows where this is heading, because it is just a repeat of their previous departure.

"So you're just going to leave?"

Her voice rings too sharp in her ears, and it occurs to her that a bit of his bitterness has leached on to her. It is as much a surprise to her as it is a shock to him when her hand shoots out from her side and wraps firmly around his biceps.

He reacts by instinct; the lyrium markings on his skin flash bright blue in the muted, orange glow of the vestibule's torchlight. His right hand clamps down on her wrist, forcing her to loosen her hold. Hawke is neither helpless nor fragile, but a minuscule thread of fear ripples at the pit of her stomach for an instant at the sight of his feral grimace. In a blur of movement he seizes her by the shoulders and pushes her back. She is so transfixed by the wild look in his eyes, that she barely registers the sharp pain under his grip on her shoulders and at the back of her head as she crashes against the wall. They are too close for her to execute an effective defense and in this state he is much stronger than she is. His face is turned away from her; the air from her quick, shallow breaths stirs the hair at his nape, making his ears twitch. She is close enough to smell the faint traces of sweat mingled with soot from the hearth's fire on his skin. He turns to face her, and that fearful thread dissipates in the wake of a familiar, more welcome sensation at the base of her spine. The markings dim as he comes to his senses. Recognition flashes in his widened eyes, then shame and something else flit across his face, leaving him slightly flushed before his vice-like grip on her shoulders slackens.

Marian recognizes an echo of barely restrained want in his dilated pupils when he starts to pull away. It is her turn to react by instinct. She cuts off his retreat, seizing him by the collar of his tunic. She pulls herself in close, clumsily pressing her lips against his. He resists her for a second, halfheartedly trying to shrug out of her hold before her hands find better purchase on his pauldrons. She feels the sharpness of his teeth trap her lower lip and tug at it as he surrenders anger for lust. It's enough to set fire to the blood in her veins, but his body is still rigid enough that she fears he will flee if she gives him the chance. She works her knee in between his thighs, then takes advantage of his momentary surprise to spin them around, crushing him against the wall and traps him there. She kisses him again, and some deep recess of her fogged-up mind sings a trill of victory at the low growl he emits before his hesitant hands come to circle her waist.

Her fingers find their way into his hair and she tugs gently, vaguely aware of her tongue brushing briefly against the edge of one of the markings on his neck. He shudders and pulls his face away, but she presses against him more insistently, her hips grinding against his. She stands on the tips of her toes, her right hand braced against the wall, by the side of his head to keep him there. It works. She feels the prickles of anticipation when his hands at her waist wander lower, more confident and possessive, to tug at the fabric of her doublet.

In the distance, the Chantry's massive bells announce the end of the vespers service. Vaguely, Marian recognizes this means her mother is due to be home shortly. What would the elegant and reserved Leandra say to find her daughter wrapped around the saturnine former slave in the middle of the vestibule? With a wry smirk, she manages to pull herself away from their embrace- dazed and mildly frustrated- long enough to coax Fenris through the door and into the atrium. Bodhan and Sandal are thankfully retired to their quarters, leaving only a very perplexed mabari to witness their giddy flight past the entry hall and up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchambers.

The path to the nearest flat surface is littered by discarded pieces of armor, gear, and clothing. Somewhere between the door and dodging the occasional obstacle, he has lost the hypersensitivity and aversion at being touched, and she has gained all the confidence and boldness she needs to stoke a different kind of fire within him.

Restraint and caution built up between them over the years go up in the flames of their ardor. Each of them is greedy to sate curiosity and hunger with touch and is indelicate and aggressive, but she likes being fought for control and Fenris is nothing if not persistent. Impatience finds them perched on the edge of her writing table, blissfully oblivious to anything but their bruising kisses, the feeling of blunt nails raking over sensitive skin and the relentless urge to seal any space between them with hot, fevered flesh. It is awkward, hasty, messy, and it is over too soon. He staggers in his release, uttering a throaty cry that she stifles with her mouth upon his. He braces himself with one hand on the table top, the shift in his stance makes her keenly aware that she remains unfulfilled. Their kiss mellows as the initial euphoria begins to ebb. Her body surrenders its frustration in exchange for the enjoyment of this new, languorous pace.

Marian tightens her legs around his waist, shifting closer and is surprised when he grunts in discomfort. His hand at the back of her thigh slides toward the hollow behind her knee and she feels his fingers snag around something there. When he tugs at her leg, she pulls away. She blinks, perplexed to find her half-unfastened boot still on, apparently the cause of his discomfort.

They laugh.

Eventually, they make it to her bed. With the pent-up frenzy spent, their lovemaking turns tender, deliberate. He is surprisingly adept at learning her body's responses, despite the reservations he'd confessed years earlier. It occurs to her that perhaps some lover in his old life had taught his body well what his mind has forgotten. The idea sends a brief stab of jealousy coursing through her, and she makes a conscious effort to drown the unreasonable sentiment in the sensations his mouth is trailing along her abdomen.

Whatever was before is not now... The last thought- a prayer to the Maker: let there be no one who can claim him if he should remember- dissolves from her mind with the sound of her own voice, an undulating "Oh!" that escapes her bruised lips when he finds another responsive spot above her hip.


	2. His Lady

**Mini A.N.:** _1._ I don't think Fenris's markings are a constant source of pain, but a reminder of unbearable pain. _2._ I don't like creepy stalker Fenris stealing his favors, so this is how I think he came into them. _3._ I think his memories came after they made love, not during. _4. _ I think Fenris's attempts at being charming and flirty with Hawke are adorable. He can also be funny sometimes. _5._ I didn't think anyone would notice, but yes, the prologue was present tense. The rest of the story isn't… I have no idea why, but for some reason I felt the prologue should be different. Thank you for the favorites, story alerts, and reviews. 

If you wish, you can read an extended Author's note here: **http : / / nineshadows . livejournal . com / 13698 . html # cutid1 (cut, paste, and remove extra spaces)**

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><p><strong>CH 1 - His Lady's Favor<strong>

The room around her burst away into tiny dots of grey and white for the fourth time that evening. The tension that had coiled deep within her suddenly released in oscillating waves, leaving her braced on trembling arms over an equally dazed, sweat-slicked Fenris. As her vision cleared, she took advantage of his momentary lack of awareness to study him. His hair was damp, several strands stuck together like thin ribbons, clinging to his flushed face. His breath came in hot, ragged bursts, and he seemed to be looking right through her with liquid, owlish eyes.

She shifted to maintain balance, then lifted a hand to brush the hair away from his forehead. Her movement elicited a stuttered groan from him, and she couldn't help the impish grin that quirked a corner of her mouth when she felt his fingers dig reflexively at her hips, holding her still. She arched a bit against him, just to see his reaction and was sadistically pleased when he shut his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, helplessly twitching in response.

"Easy now..." His gravelly voice rumbled against her sweaty palm resting over his chest.

Hawke was fascinated by the way his throat worked when he swallowed to relieve the dryness in his mouth. Carefully, she lowered herself toward him so her elbow rested on the mattress next to his head. She ran a fingertip over his furrowed brow; let it slide down to the tip of his nose and over his lips. He captured her finger between his teeth, playfully bit down on it as punishment for her mischief.

Her grin broke into a full-fledged smile when he cracked one eye open to stare at her with disapproval. She was tempted to shift again, and as if he had read her mind, he bucked against her and she was suddenly flipped on her back, both wrists held above her head in the strong grip of his right hand. His left hand cupped over her bottom, effectively keeping them together during the maneuver. He grinned down at her and shook his head when she shifted her legs to try and regain leverage.

"No."

She blinked up at him, and let out a giggle. Finally, her head hit the pillow, sending up a small flurry of down filling to float around them.

"Don't take this the wrong way," said Fenris, sliding his left hand up over her hip and side to pluck away a feather that landed between her breasts, "And believe me when I say it's a difficult choice."

He paused to press a tender kiss on her mouth. He drew back a bit; his rakish, lopsided grin strummed at the core of some forgotten, girlish part of her.

"A very, very, very difficult choice, because-" he punctuated each word with soft pecks along her jawline, "I am not sure I have found the last of your secret ticklish spots," he continued, nuzzling the underside of her chin, "but I don't want to fall asleep halfway through the next search," he sighed against the pulse point on her neck.

She laughed. When he looked up at her, she gave him her best incredulous stare.

"Oh no! Don't tell me that story about superior elven stamina was all lies!"

His self-deprecating chuckle vibrated against her ribs, the sensation sent her imagination tumbling into directions that could make even Isabela blush like a virginal Andrastean novitiate.

"Hmmm," he rested his forehead against hers, releasing his grip on her wrists. "Perhaps after the last few days of chasing after slavers and bloodmages, even the most athletic of the elvhen would reach his stamina's limit regardless of commitment to a most intriguing cause, I'm afraid."

They were treading on thin ice with that line of conversation. Hawke recognized the dark veil that fluttered in his eyes at the recollection of their encounter with Hadriana. She could not allow the dead magister to stake a claim in this moment between them. Her hands framed his face and she drew him down for another kiss, hoping to pull his mind away from those bitter thoughts. When they pulled apart, he smiled at her apprehensively, turning his face to place a kiss into the palm of her right hand. His weary expression caused a tiny spark of anxiety to take hold in her mind.

"You fought a _good_ fight, Ser Fenris," Hawke sighed and allowed him to roll off her onto his side. His arm draped over her hip, while her own arm circled his torso, fingers idly tracing the contour of his back muscles. They lay in silence, each lost in thought. Fenris shifted closer, brushing his lips against her forehead. She turned her head, pressing her ear against his chest, taking comfort in the sound of his steadily slowing heartbeat.

She was dully aware of the chill in the room as the sweat on her skin began to evaporate; the fire had died down to a few glowing embers a couple of hours before. The surge of endorphins was beginning to fade, revealing a pattern of pleasant aches across her body. Finally, she acknowledged the boneless lethargy that had begun to set in her limbs. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she had almost surrendered the last thread of wakefulness when she recognized the subtle movements at her side.

Her eyes snapped open to find Fenris sitting at the edge of the bed, with his back to her, groping in the dark at the floor where she vaguely remembered throwing his crumpled breeches earlier. The moonlight streaming through the window dispelled some of the shadows. It cast a dull blue light over him, making the contrast between the white lyrium markings and his dusky skin all the more stark. She reached out to trace the curve of his shoulder, causing him to go immediately still.

"Stay." Her voice was steady, despite the quivering apprehension she felt in her chest.

When he made no move to acknowledge her request, she raised up onto her elbow, pressing herself against his back. He turned his head toward her, giving her a better view of his profile, but avoiding her eyes.

"You need to sleep."

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Marian was aware that the barriers she had smashed through with her impulsive kiss earlier could easily be brought back if she didn't stop him then.

"I won't be able to if you leave now." She countered, sitting more upright and resting her chin on his shoulder. "You're tired too, so stay. Whatever it is you-" she bit her lip. There was no such thing as his problems and her problems after tonight. She needed him to understand that.

"Whatever comes, _we_ will deal with it tomorrow."

"Hmm," he nodded slowly and shifted around toward her.

He smoothed a stray lock of her dark hair away from her eyes.

"Very well," he nodded, "I will stay."

She pulled him back down into the bed, a bit startled by the guarded tone in his voice. Fenris lay stiffly on his back, hands clasped over his abdomen, almost as if he was wary of touching her. Her heart gave a painful lurch at the possibility he may be regretting their new intimacy. She watched him for a few minutes, mulling over a few possible ways she could pull him back from whatever gloom had settled over him between their last kiss and now. There had to be something she could do to ensure he didn't leave once she fell asleep.

Then an idea came to her. She rolled over to the other side of the bed, patting blindly under a corner of the bed cushion. A wistful smile ghosted over her lips when her fingers ran over the soft texture of the item she sought. She pulled out the small bundle wrapped in madder-red linen. Carefully, she untied the bundle and unwrapped an engraved talisman of protection, her father's last gift to her. She replaced the talisman under the cushion and twisted the linen kerchief lengthwise.

"What are-" Fenris started when Hawke sat bolt upright, seizing hold of his right hand and yanking it toward the headboard.

"W-wait!" His eyes widened and he resisted her hold when he spotted the red kerchief she was tying around his wrist with a square knot. "You can't be serious!"

"As an undertaker. You're not going anywhere!" She wrestled with him for a few seconds, relieved to see his lips twitch with an amused grin at her antics. Her gambit had played out well.

"I said I would stay," he reminded her when he managed to pull his bound wrist from her grasp.

"Yes, of course," she pouted prettily at him. She tugged at the loose end of the linen still in her grasp and met with resistance. "You'll stay until you're sure I'm asleep, and then you'll sneak out and run off to Maker-knows-where to sulk about being de-flowered."

"De-flow-?" The absurd idea gave him a mental hiccup.

Fenris rolled his eyes and muttered darkly in Arcanum. He wrapped his hand around the slack kerchief, pulling her toward him. Once he had her within his grasp, he shifted around so she lay in front of him with her back against his chest. Her head rested on his right shoulder, and he twined his fingers with hers.

"I think you have been spending too much time with Isabela." He whispered in her ear, drawing her closer with his left arm around her midriff. "De-flowering... Honestly!

"Don't leave while I'm sleeping, or I'll have to hurt you!" She threatened, fingering the knot at his wrist.

"Perish the thought!" He chuckled. "I have no wish to make you angry. I have seen what happens to the ones who do."

She snorted, twisting her head around to give him a half-hearted glare.

"I suppose I should untie you," she turned back, reaching for his wrist again, "Since you promised to be good and all."

"No," he stilled her hand, "I think I wish to keep it."

"Oh?" Her curiosity piqued, she shifted around to fully face him.

She was met with a twinkle in his green irises peeking through hooded eyes. He managed a drowsy smile before he bumped his forehead playfully against hers.

"Yes," he reached behind him to grab at the long-forgotten bedsheet. "It is my lady's favor, after all."

The fluttering his sleepy declaration triggered at the pit of her stomach surprised her.

"A token to remember me by?" she was certain her smile couldn't get any wider; it was starting to make her face hurt a bit.

"Mm-hmm," he nodded, eyes already closed. The syllables dragged as he assured her, "And so you will know I am thinking about you."

She was still grinning like an idiot when he cracked open one eye to look at her.

"Sleep." he commanded, pulling the sheet around them both.

He shut his eyes again, and buried his nose into her hair, putting paid to any further discussion.

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><p>When she woke to the sounds of kindling crackling in the fireplace, she had a moment of panic to find the place beside her empty. The sheets felt cold as she ran a hand over where she had expected him to be. She heard movement behind her and she rolled over to find him standing, fully clothed, by the fireplace. How he had managed to untangle himself from her and dress so quickly without waking her was a mystery.<p>

Fenris had kept his word; he had not left while she slept. The set of his shoulders and his clenched fist told her, he was set to leave as soon as she awakened. A small part of her felt a bit offended. She leveraged up on her elbow and watched him for a moment before speaking.

"Was it that bad?"

Her voice startled him; he turned to face her.

"I'm sorry, i-it's not..." The tension in his body was obvious as he fidgeted, as if he couldn't decide between approaching her and retreating. He swung his right hand out to the side, "It was fine..."

She was surprised to see the red kerchief wound carefully over his right vambrace. His lady's favor. But the tone in his voice contradicted the gesture. Something had changed between them while she slept. His face scrunched into an irritated frown at his choice of words. He fidgeted again, letting his hand fall against his thigh.

"No. That is... Insufficient."

He paused, finally meeting her gaze. The earnestness in his voice and his soft, wistful expression reassured her that the previous night had been significant for him as well.

"It was better than _anything_ I could have dreamed."

Once again, the subtext jumped at her _'but I don't have room for dreaming'_ and her old defense mechanism, her inappropriate humor, responded to fill the void the realization left in her heart.

"Oh?" Her gaze drifted to the fireplace, "I can come up with much crazier things in _my_ dreams."

Her fist reflexively tightened on the sheets. _'Crazier things, like... You not walking away,' she_ thought about saying. She shifted and the sheet slid open to reveal her legs as she swung them over the side of the bed to sit up. She scoffed to herself when the sight prompted him to turn his face away, his cheeks obviously flushed, even in the shifting shadows cast over the room by the firelight.

"I began to remember...my life before." He took a few steps toward the opposite side of the room, "just flashes."

She watched him pace back and forth in front of the bed. He reminded her of a caged predator. Frustration seemed to increase as he struggled to explain himself without giving too much away.

"It's too much. This is too fast!" he shook his head, his eyes clouded with apprehension. He stopped in front of her.

"I-I cannot-" he reluctantly met her impassive gaze, "-do...this."

The distress in his eyes made her heart squeeze painfully in her chest. She couldn't bear to look at him any more, so she studied the patterns on the rug. She swallowed to reign in the prickling sensation behind her eyes, keenly aware that he awaited her response.

"Don't you want to get your memories back?" She said the first thing she thought would keep him talking, keep him from walking out the door.

He lowered his head, his frown deepening as he turned away from her again. "Perhaps you don't realize how upsetting this is," he began pacing again, fists raised against his chest, flexing in an attempt to release whatever obscure emotion threatened to suffocate him.

"I've never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush, only to lose it!" He stood by the fireplace, his back turned to her, shoulders heaving with his strained breath. "And then I…"

He bit off the rest of that statement, transfixed by his gauntleted right hand. From her position at the edge of the bed, Marian thought she saw the flicker of blue light run across his fingers before he suddenly turned to face her again. His mouth worked soundlessly as his hand closed into a fist. She thought anguish was something he was incapable of expressing, and for a brief second, she wished she had never seen it in his eyes.

"I can't-" Fenris inhaled sharply, letting his hand drop loose at his side. "I can't."

There was something else, she was sure of it. Something more sinister than a rush of memory was fueling his anxiety to leave her. She had known him long enough and had been observing him closely enough over the years to recognize the slant of his shoulders, the droop of his head as guilt.

"So you're going to leave." It wasn't a question and it bothered her that she had accepted his departure without much effort.

"I'm sorry. I feel like such a fool." He took two steps away from her, bowed his head, "This should never have happened in the first place."

She was almost glad he had not been looking at her face when he said it. The back of her neck felt numb, as if someone had placed a heavy yoke upon it. Her eyes burned, bitter bile rose up in her throat. Marian watched him shuffle towards the door, almost as if he were forcing each foot in front of the other. The door swung open slowly with a slight creak. He paused with his hand on the handle, tilted his head in her direction, but didn't turn to look back. His voice was almost a whisper.

"Forgive me."

And with those last words he slipped out, disappearing into the dark landing.


	3. Non Omnis Moriar

Oompf! This is heavy and has too much angst for my taste, but it had to be done… I promise this will not be a regular occurrence; it was just necessary to give Fenris's departure a bit more substance than "Wahh! I can't deal with the emotional baggage of remembering and forgetting! It sucks that I break your heart in the process, but I must run off now!"

Many thanks to everyone who is following, favoring, and alerting the story. Special gratitude overflows mine heart for those who have reviewed; your encouragement and commentary give me much, much joy. As always, I hope you are entertained by this installment, and if there is anything you liked, disliked, didn't understand, etc., feel free to let me know.

For translations, see below the end of the chapter. The disclaimer is prominently displayed at the beginning of the prologue, everything still applies.

EDIT: I was in a hurry, about to head into a meeting when I posted this the first time, so I messed up the formatting big time. I think I got everything now, so sorry for the confusion.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 - Non Omnis Moriar<strong>

"Don't you want to get your memories back?" She asked, her usually mellow voice sounded strained.

He wasn't sure if it was anger or fear that colored her voice. Either option made him hate every second of his existence. He couldn't look at her any more, the weight of his half-truths crashed upon him, threatening to crumble his determination to get through this moment. His head dropped against his chest; face tight with the effort of restraining himself from speaking the truth. He alone had to swallow this bitter pill. He turned away from her.

"Perhaps you don't realize how upsetting this is," he began pacing in front of the fireplace again, fists clenched and unclenched against his chest.

"I've never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush, only to lose it!" He felt her eyes like the sharp points of daggers upon his back.

His heart hammered against his chest, spurring his words past his lips, a hurried, half-thought excuse to hide that horrible image from his dream. It seemed almost as if air failed to reach his lungs, his chest burned with each labored inhale.

"And then I…"

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><p><em>That voice. <em>

_"Fenris, vos es mei," it is a serpent's hiss in his ears. "Ei-cume-ud."_

_Dread and bitterness coil around him, seizing his legs, forcing him to step forward, past the fortress of spears, muscle, bone, and painted skin surrounding him. It is raining; hair, leather, and cloth cling feebly like drowning hope against him. There is an unyielding grip around his arm, strong enough to snap the strings that pull him toward that voice and those cold, cold eyes across the clearing._

"_Teth-a, Kadan,__" the warning is softly spoken; but, like a fist through a veil, the impact strains against the surrender flowing through his veins. _Beware, dear brother.

_The serpent hisses again, "Mordoi totus.__" The pain comes when he hesitates, and the hissing his now a fevered screech. "You __**will**__ obey, dog!"_

_The hand holding him back is gone; his body aches and the world spins before his eyes as the strings make him dance. Anything! Anything to make the pain stop! Soon, the soil around him drinks the blood of his protectors and hunters alike. Columns of steam rise from scorched craters all around, the billowy veil now parting to reveal the prone figure of the magister, pinned like an insect through the gut by a spear. __He approaches. Beside Danarius, a woman struggles to her feet. Her hands coil around the spear in his master's belly and she twists. The magister utters a gurgling cry that both fascinates him and fills him with anxiety. The woman_— _a former viddathari, this Fog Warrior clan's healer, with hair the color of coal, tinged in places with the ashen gray of age, turns to him. Her half-breed elven features sharpen; she is angry, but not with him._

_Fenris stands beside her and looks down on Danarius, whose lead-colored eyes seethe at him, promising much pain in his future. She spits, it lands on the magister's cheek, and she smiles with her scarred lips, "Basra vashedan__; you own no one in this place."_

_Danarius laughs a stuttering, madness-laced cackle, but his eyes never waver from Fenris's face. _

_Everything around him fades into a black void. There is no more rain, no more blood-soaked mud beneath his feet; the corpses of the Fog Warriors and the bounty hunters have also vanished, leaving only Danarius, the Fog Warrior medicine woman, and him. That slithering compulsion returns. He stumbles back on stiff limbs. There are strong arms around him, and he sinks to his knees, clinging to that warmth that offers him an escape. He doesn't remember his mother, but he imagines she might have held him the same way. _

"_He can't control you, Kadan!" Callused hands smooth the hair at the back of his head. "You are free!" Everything is darkness, for his eyes are shut tightly, he doesn't wish to see Danarius's colorless eyes bending him to his will._

"_Run, Fenris," the voice is different but dearly familiar. "He can't have you if you find me," The promise gives him courage but confuses him because **she** does not belong here. This is far away and long ago, and he does not know her in this place._

"_Mordoi la_ _meretricis,__" the snake hisses, the sound is inside his head now._

_The arms holding him stiffen and then go slack. He opens his eyes. Marian smiles, pitying him, the obedient slave. Her lips part to form the syllables of his name and a thread of bright red blood carves a path out of the corner of her mouth and down to her chin. T__he sight tears a ragged wail from his lungs._

_Danarius's laughter thunders in his ears. _

_He cries and presses his face into her hair. He can feel her heart between his fingers, throbbing weakly against his crushing hold. He doesn't dare let go; his mind spins in circles of flawed logic…she lives! She lives as long as her heart beats. But for how long? A broken, wet sob escapes his lips in a crude mimic of her name, "Ma-rian-" he's desperate, seeking her mouth._

"_Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me…" He bruises his lips against hers, he wants her to speak, but her breath is gone. His plea is a litany of pathetic moans._

_She has no comfort to offer. Her heart has gone still within his hand._

* * *

><p>Fenris lay disoriented for a long time, trying to reconcile the horrifying images from his nightmare with the warm tangle of arms and legs that surrounded him in that strangely comforting bed. <em>I killed her<em>. Slowly and methodically, he extricated himself from her embrace and immediately went about collecting his things. He untied the kerchief from his arm and quickly fastened on his vambrace. The thought crossed his mind to leave the kerchief behind, but he couldn't bring himself to part with that promise he had made, just hours before.

"_So you will know I am thinking about you."_

He smoothed the wrinkles from the scrap of cloth and retied it over his vambrace.

* * *

><p>Now he stood, with his back to her, piling lie upon lie, justifying his intent to abandon her. He felt torn between the desire to ensure that <em>this<em> was the reality, that other atrocity the dream and the firm belief that staying with her would only bring that nightmare to life. Danarius still controlled him, no matter how long and how hard he struggled against him. If the magister knew what Marian meant to him, Fenris would surely be powerless to prevent history from repeating at an ever more unimaginable price.

_Quaeque ipsa miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui._

How he wished so desperately to touch her, to feel her strong pulse and her warm skin, her breath, all proof that she was _alive_ and unharmed. But each time his eyes closed for even a second, those images blazed to life in his mind; pitch black fading to grey and the familiar sworls of white, a flash of blue, and then red, red…. red everywhere.

"I can't-" he whimpered, choking on a breath. The surging pulse of power triggered by the memory faded from the tips of his fingers. His hands fell to his sides and he turned to her, too weak to stop himself from stealing that bit of comfort of seeing her in good health, "I can't."

Her eyes were cold and brittle like ice. He accepted her accusation; yes, he was a coward and a liar. Better that she hate him. At least then, she would be safe from him when he inevitably surrendered to that hateful, mindless pattern he had apparently been condemned to live.

His last words were lost into the air; only the knowledge remained that he had meant to cut away any hopes between them. His feet felt impossibly heavy, but he forced them to move. _Walk,_ he told himself when he hesitated at the door. He barely managed to restrain the desire to look upon her one last time, compelling his memory to replay that last desperate instant of his dream when she had gone cold in his arms and he had begged the Maker to let him drink the death right out of her mouth.

"Forgive me," his voice sounded just as pathetic as in his dream, but he was satisfied. The door closed with a slight creak behind him. It would do him well to remember why he so willingly tore his own heart out.

* * *

><p><em>Walk<em>, Fenris had told himself over and over from the second he felt his resolution quake under Marian's dejected regard. _Walk, walk, walk! _ And so he did. He walked through the door, across the landing, down the darkened stairs, past a sleeping mabari in the main hall, into the vestibule- where his memory stabbed him in the gut by reminding him what had started there. He kept going, out the front door and across the garden. After the gate clanked shut, on and on he walked, until he could see no more whitewashed walls, no more cobblestones, no more indigo banners, no more Kirkwall.

By the time he stopped, the sun reflected brightly off the choppy waters of the Waking Sea. The previous hours' march seemed a hazy dream to him, a blurred, distorted mirage that reminded him of his misadventure in the Fade, his first betrayal. Slowly, the fog of bewilderment lifted and he found himself standing in the frigid water.

"_Bis miser est ille qui ante felix fuit__,_" Fenris murmured, his gaze dropped to his right wrist and fixed on the strip of bright crimson fastened there.

He felt as if he had split into two. One part of him stood in the desolate beach of the Wounded Coast, knee deep in the slack tide. Regret and grief were momentarily held at bay by the numbness afforded him through some unknown grace, though he knew eventually reality would catch up with him. Soon he would feel it in the same way a wound's pain ambushed him long after a battle was over. This part of him chided him only the weakness of his flesh for putting him into this situation in the first place.

The other part wished he had remained behind instead of fleeing into the dark. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself in her arms, his face buried in her hair, heedless of the passage of time, of sound or light; aware only of the cadence of her breaths and the warmth of her skin against his own. Blissfully ignorant to the torment his dreams had brought, this part of him would wake up with her stirring beside him, and he would smile, and draw her close and prove to her how his foolish heart was fit to burst in his chest from joy at the mere sight of her. This part of him rebelled against the cruel logic that fueled his determination to leave her.

His toes were numb; his mind vaguely distinguished the twinge in his joints. For a moment he swayed, unable to decide whether to walk himself deeper into the ocean and drown or retreat to the shore, and walk until he could put no more distance between him and her. Neither option held appeal.

Fenris held no great love for an aloof Maker who seemed deaf, blind, and mute to the abuses he and others had suffered for ages under oppressive masters and persecutors. No, his bitterness had long ago edged away what little faith had existed at the beginning, and yet he couldn't bring himself to take that last step, to spit in the eye of the life giver. It seemed a terrible waste more than a sin, he told himself. A small part of him also feared there would be a horrible torment to punish him for his audacity. What a coward he was.

Running to the furthest corner of Thedas also seemed a miserable alternative. Where could he go and be able to rid himself of the phantoms of his past? He had lied to her, perhaps. It was not a new occurrence, that fleeting remembrance. Similar events occurred during the rare moments when his guard was down, when he had no fear of being seized by Danarius or his search dogs. He had few of those precious periods when anxiety was a far thought and exhaustion or drunkenness granted him a blessed oblivion in sleep.

That's when they came— the blackened, faceless shapes and their sharp demands. _Usquequo oblivisceris nos? In finem? Forhwon avertis faciem tuam a nos? Mane-ud! ætýne-d oculi tui videant! _The disquieting urgency tugged at the knots of his memory in dreams, only to get further tangled and lost in the jumble. Familiar sounds, smells, and sometimes sensation would linger only long enough for the fog of sleep to withdraw, dissipating the instant he opened his eyes. The only thing that remained was the sharp edge of frustration in the knowledge that something had been lost to him.

Worse still, he could never hope to outrun what he _could_ remember. He was indeed a fool, piercing himself with such a savage blade, for he dared not forget a single detail of either the sweet or the bitter. It was the memories he _did_ have that helped to fill that caustic void inside him. So he clung to every last bit, hoarding every texture and sound, every flavor, every color, every scent; he used every single one of these to prop himself anew, trussing up the sagging ruins of his empty and aimless life, just so he could feel real. It was never enough.

Where could he run? There was no place in the entire universe where he wouldn't find himself wanting for more. He would always want more; more of her voice, of the brush of her hair against his cheek, or the feel of her hand upon his own, guiding the quill into loops and lines giving life to words on a page. He should be bitter. He should hate her for capturing him so completely and enslaving him to his need for her.

How far he had run already; he'd broken free from Danarius's irons to happily and willingly forge for himself the gilded shackles he had no hope or desire to escape. Somewhere along the way, the curiosity sparked by her frank, playful overtures became the comfort of having her company. _That_ transformed into the novelty and pleasure of her friendship, then it smoothly developed into guarded affection, which in turn picked up the heat of desire, sharpened by the tension of their disagreements… He had no idea when it happened or why, but now, the idea of Marian had become a devastating passion inside him.

He could not leave. His weakness was a disgusting, miserable thing. The groveling, red-eyed Samson, whispering about his precious powder came to mind and Fenris was certain that if he left Kirkwall, he would end up the same pathetic wretch in some far-away slum, contemplating the faded rags of his precious memories.

His eyes were helplessly drawn to the screaming red of her favor, tied around his wrist. His reminder. For everything that stood on the balance, he would remember.

_Not all of me shall perish. She lives, and that is more than enough._

* * *

><p>The Arcanum and Qunari phrases are borrowed, recycled and reshaped (poorly) from Latin texts, Old English and uhhh… the DA2 codex database. I am fluent in two, mediocre in a third, and miserably inept at a fourth language; sadly, Latin and Old English are not among these.<p>

1. _Bis miser est ille qui ante felix fuit : _Twice miserable is he who once knew joy.

2._ Usquequo oblivisceris nos? In finem? Forhwon avertis faciem tuam a nos? Mane-ud! ætýne-d oculi tui videant! : _How long will you forget us? Forever? Why do you turn your face from us? Remember! Open your eyes and see!

3. _Fenris, vos es mei: _Fenris, you are mine.

4. _Ei-cume-ud: _Come to me.

5. _Teth a, Kadan:_ Beware, brother (a comrade, a brother-at-arms, not a sibling)

6. _Mordoi totus!:_ Kill them all!

7. _Basra vashedan:_ Foreign trash

8. _Mordoi la meretricis:_ Kill the whore

9. _Quaeque ipsa miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui:_ How many horrible things I have seen, and how great a part of them was I.


	4. You and I and Everyone

**Midi A/N: **I apologize for the long time it took me to post this chapter in comparison to the first three. I am no longer doing my office-hours research thing; instead, I am a couple of days from doing my overseas clerkship, so time has been scarce and will be even more so with the added obstacle of limited internet access.

First off, I'd like to thank everyone who has added the story to their alert and favorites lists. I'm humbled by the unexpected number of people that have done so, my inbox went kind of crazy last month. Thank you, thank you. I am perfectly aware of how tedious it is to leave reviews, even for outstanding works (I am guilty of this, since I am a bedtime reader and often fall asleep before I even finish a chapter sometimes.) The fact that you enjoy the story enough to fave/alert tells me something, and I'm grateful. That said, seeing how I can appreciate the obstacles to reviewing, I have to give special recognition to those brave souls who do review: T.I.M., Lady Bastilla, , Twistedaristocrat, violingrl07, Reading Disorder, palkia, and of course, LadyGreatSkullZero ( don't fret! I love long reviews, I give them myself whenever I can ;)

Anyway, this chapter ended up being huge, so I've had to split it. I'm up to 8K words, and it doesn't want to stop... I'm afraid not many exciting things happen here, as it is a transitional chapter, and I was left a little drained from writing Fenris's nightmare-of-doom. I thought I'd balance that out with a bit of lightness courtesy of the Heroic Ladies Guild of Kirkwall. I'm iffy about my ability to pull off the dynamics between Isabela, Merrill, and Aveline, but I gave it the old school try. As before, it's unbeta'ed and unstable... like Anders.

Here it is: the mystery of how the ill-timed tryst between a fiercely private ex-slave and a prideful jilted Fereldan became public knowledge. In case you're interested, a more detailed Author's Note can be found at my livejournal (link can be found on my profile)

Disclaimer: BioWare's shinies, my strange imaginings, your entertainment, and sadly, no monies were made by me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3- Part 1: You and I and Everyone<strong>

Her initial reaction had been an indifferent sort of annoyance, the kind she would feel at finding her tankard empty during a rousing game of Wicked Grace. A rather uninspired, '_Huh?_' was the first thing that crossed her mind. He begged her forgiveness and beat a hasty retreat into the grey dawn while she sat at the side of the bed, half-naked and still sticky from their lovemaking; a pity to be sure, but not quite the end of the world.

Shortly after, she heard the garden gate squeak and clang shut, and she managed to lumber across the room to find her chemise piled under her weapons in a corner by her desk. It was as she wended her way back to bed through the trail of her discarded clothing and hardware that the shock seeped in to melt away the protective shell of her apathy. The scent that enveloped her when she curled herself back under the sheets was equivalent to a sucker-punch to her belly.

Secretly, she admired Isabela for her detachment and self-interest; though Hawke believed herself somewhat capable of separating lust from other complications if the opportunity presented itself to her. She had fancied herself a lot more aloof and practical a woman to bother with… romance. No. Marian had been too logical and calculating to let herself suffer the humiliation and pain that inevitably followed any love entanglement. But in the awkward aftermath of her liaison with Fenris, she finally allowed herself to probe at all those thoughts she'd pulled up short from fruition over the past two years.

She had recognized long ago that fear of attachment was the reason she pretended to be oblivious whenever Anders dropped hints of his affections, or why she teased Sebastian with amorous innuendo, or why she usually parried Fenris's clumsy flirtations with much too forward retorts designed to intimidate him and force him to back off. It made her feel like a bit of a scoundrel, fully aware of their intentions in the case of Anders and Fenris, but too cowardly to directly disabuse either of the idea. So instead, she'd made a game out of flirtatious exchanges with every other one of her male companions. She hoped her flightiness and lighthearted approach to affection would clue them in— especially Anders— that she didn't think of them _that_ way. But she was a shitty liar, of course...the proof of it scored, bitten, and kissed all over her body at the moment; she wasn't equally indifferent to everyone.

Maker save her, she certainly didn't care to repeat the mistake she'd seen Bethany make shortly before Lothering had come crashing down around their heads. Love was just too much trouble for someone as obstinate as herself. That, and she suspected that behind his gentle words and soft manners, Anders hid a bucket-full of batshit crazy she had no skill with which to deal.

Maybe she was being hasty. It was true that she was no blushing maiden, but it had certainly been a long time since she'd last… indulged her baser needs. Perhaps the lack of practice had thrown her off balance? Surely she had not been ready to end her dry spell with the grenade of suppressed emotions she knew Fenris to be.

Unbidden, a memory came to her of the moment in which his initial violent reaction to her touch had morphed into a precarious mixture of recognition, fear and lust. She remembered how his muscles had been so tense with restraint that he trembled slightly under her hands.

If what she was trying to make herself believe was true, she was a foul villain indeed. She could not really be so selfish as to take advantage of his moment of weakness just to satisfy her need for a good rutting. She would not have been so pleased at their mostly clichéd exchanges in between if she had only sex in mind. And most certainly, she would not be giving a second thought to the hot ball of anger, humiliation, and confusion that tugged her mind in different directions now. Her eyes would be clear and dry and absolutely not stinging and blurred like they felt. She would have gotten her ass out of bed, gathered the sodden sheets and tossed them into a pile for the laundress to deal with instead of cocooning herself into the places in her mattress that still smelled so distinctly of him.

A watery sigh escaped her mouth when she clutched the pillow where his head had rested earlier. She pressed her face into the cushion, surprised by the flood of heated memories the smell brought and by the hollow pain in her chest that accompanied them.

Hindsight was blunt and unkind. The net had been cast a long time ago with her cheeky offer to provide him with some complications. Hawke let loose a wry chuckle when she recalled the way his eyebrows had arched in disconcerted confusion. It was her ability to breach his prickly posturing that had encouraged her, and soon enough, she had unwittingly tangled herself up in her own net.

She had been hopelessly lost by the time she found herself at his table, drinking with him from the same dusty bottle of Aggregio on the anniversary of his escape. Oh, the thrill she'd felt at his purred response when she mentioned how much she enjoyed hearing him speak. There had been a knowing gleam in his eye when he'd leaned toward her and complied, his voice low and full of meaning.

"_There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman."_

No one had ever called her beautiful before.

The look they had exchanged then had snared her instantly. She would recall the moment often and find herself flustered, even months later. The moment had not lasted very long, but she recognized it for what it had been: a test of the boundaries between them. Hawke had been sure he could read her like a book (oh, irony of ironies!), and once he had figured her out, he retreated under the pretext of settling in for the tale.

Hawke had to wonder now— in light of the turn of events, just how much of his motivation to share his story with her was to encourage whatever he had recognized in her demeanor and how much of it was to discourage her advances.

* * *

><p>It was midmorning by the time she managed to drift off, though her mind got no rest, caught in the eddy of her memories. The ghost of sensation still remained fresh across her skin. Some last vestige of her consciousness recognized the bitter futility these memories would provide her every time she fell asleep from that moment and for a long time to come.<p>

Judging by the angle and color of the light filtering through the window, it was late in the afternoon when Marian finally stirred from her shallow, restless sleep. She stared past the rippled glass out into an orange-tinged sky, hunting for the first glints of starlight in an effort to pretend she had finally managed to stop thinking.

A jaunty rap at the door startled her from beginning another thought about Fenris. She gratefully scrambled to her feet and hastily slipped into her dressing gown.

"Just a moment!" she called out, hoping to stall long enough to clean up the mess in her room.

To her surprise, the scattered pieces of her equipment and clothing had been picked up and neatly stowed away as she slept. There was even a tray of food on her writing table.

Orana. Something had to be said for the elf's stealth, apparently. The door opened and Isabela poked her head in with a hopeful look on her face.

"It's not like you have something I don't, you know!" She clucked her tongue in mock reproach. "Ahh, bollocks! You're all covered up already. And here I thought I could squeeze a couple of sovereigns out of the boys for the juicy details."

"Isn't it a bit early to be peeping around people's homes, Isabela?"

Hawke felt invigorated with the distraction and set about selecting something more appropriate to wear.

"Isn't it a bit late to be lounging in your chemise, Hawke?" The Rivaini countered with a narrow-eyed expression that reminded Marian of a fox on the hunt.

"I thought a little beauty rest might do me some good." She smirked, hoping her face didn't look as stiff as it felt.

She felt a pinprick of weariness when the bejeweled raider shut the door behind her and casually made her way to the writing desk to idly poke at the cold food on the tray.

"You didn't show up to your lunch with Merrill, so she got her smalls into a twist wondering if she had done to upset you." Isabela gave her a sideways glance, plucking a grape from the tray and rolling it between her fingers. "Then she worried that you'd gotten mauled by a gang of Mabari Lords."

"I-uh… completely forgot about that. I had a long night," Hawke shrugged, turning away to hide the blush she was sure had crept up her neck by now.

Isabela's sultry chuckle sent shivers up her spine. Alarmed, Hawke turned to find her at the foot of the bed.

"I _see_," Isabela purred. "A long, _rough_ night, it appears."

Marian felt the blood leave her face. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and threatened to launch up and out of her throat. A strangled sound was all she managed to make when Isabela next spoke.

"I'm guessing that Amell crest Fenris is now parading around on his belt came from there?" The Rivaini pointed a sharp-nailed finger toward the center of the massive headboard, to the faded outline where a small shield had been affixed before.

Hawke's blush had to be obvious now, she was sure her ears were on fire if the guffaw she earned when Isabela looked straight at her was any indication.

* * *

><p><em>His belt was disposed of with great efficiency, tossed over her shoulder. It wasn't until later, when she found herself scrambling for a handhold to leverage into a better position that she grabbed hold of it where it had landed, caught from the Amell crest affixed on her headboard. <em>

_It came off with little resistance, landing with a clatter on his head. Fenris let out a hearty string of Arcanum expletives, trying to bat away the tangled belt and crest while maintaining his rhythm._

_They both laughed because he failed to do either. When they reluctantly paused, she arranged it across his chest like a dignitary's sash and said it suited him._

_He offered to fix the crest later, but she told him it may fall on him again next time, so he could just keep it. He'd granted her an impish smile and proceeded to kiss her senseless. A few seconds after, the tangled belt and crest flew over his shoulder and landed in a heap near the fireplace._

* * *

><p>"Ah!" Isabela let out a contented sigh, "It's good to see I was right about all that repressed tension having a very interesting potential. I mean, if he got a trophy for his performance and all," the Rivaini popped the grape into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.<p>

"I am _not_ having this conversation with you." Marian dropped into the bench by the dressing table, covering her face with both hands. "Maker, this is _not_ happening!" she groaned, mostly for her own benefit.

Her head was beginning to hurt. She dared a peek through her fingers to find Isabela standing right in front of her, arms crossed under her bosom.

"I'm guessing your astounding speechlessness means I should go find Merrill and tell her the good news?"

Hawke shot to her feet and glared at the Rivaini.

"Don't you even think about it!" she drawled.

Isabela chuckled and raised a hand to poke her index finger against Hawke's nose.

"Not about you hoisting the mainsail of the old Glowy Broodnought, of course." She grinned playfully, "I mean that you are alive and forgetful as ever. She thinks you didn't come to lunch because you're mad at her, the poor kitten."

"Oh, well then—" she blinked, the heat of her embarrassment and irritation draining instantly. Before she could finish off the sentence, she was cut off by the sound of the door creaking open once more.

"You went sailing, Hawke?"

Isabela and Hawke both turned their heads towards the door where Merrill now stood, head tilted to the side and an eager glint in her eyes.

* * *

><p>"I think it's sweet, really," Merrill mused, her distant gaze lost in the smoky spirals hovering between the rafters of Hawke's study loft. "It says something that he's wearing your crest, Hawke. I mean, he's a downright tosser, he is… but he's a <em>sweet<em> tosser!"

Isabela nodded sternly beside Merrill; only the slight crinkle at the corner of her amber-colored eyes betrayed her amusement. "And a _lucky_ wanker, besides!" At this declaration, she leaned forward in her seat, holding up her half-empty tumbler. "Bloody lucky, sweetness!"

"Oh! Because you've been trying so hard to get into Hawke's pants and he got in there without any effort?" Merrill piped up, excited at the prospect of catching a double entendre without help.

"Wonderful, the entire household is now officially privy to the latest scandalous and stupid thing I've done." Marian sighed and let her head drop into the cradle of her arms on the table.

Aveline's heavy armor clanked as she made her way up the stairs to the loft.

"Am I going to have to arrest one of you? Isabela, you sent that message to the barracks, so I'm looking at you."

"Oh yes, let's all blame the sexy one for keeping it interesting!" Isabela yawned and made a rather rude elaborate hand gesture in Aveline's direction. "You sure know how to cock-up a good time, golem-face!"

"What you call interesting, I'm more inclined to call immoral and illegal, whore," Aveline sneered, plonking down into the bench next to Marian.

Hawke snickered into the inside of her elbow, the ridiculousness of the day hitting her all at once.

"I suppose it counts as criminal stupidity of some sort," she muttered darkly, flicking her nails against the half-empty bottle of spiced rum in front of her. "Want a drink, Aveline?" She dared a glance in Aveline's direction and found the Guard Captain giving her a suspiciously pitying look. "What?"

"I saw Fenris earlier," Aveline replied after a few seconds of silent scrutiny.

Marian tried her best to keep her face neutral. She found holding Aveline's gaze a bit disconcerting when she recognized the set of her mouth, businesslike and stern, like when questioning a suspect. Her eyes drifted away to inspect the peeling label on the bottle.

"Yeah?" She shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant. "Lot's of people did too, I hear."

"Hawke," Aveline's tone carried some warning.

"Aveline," Marian mimicked the tone.

"Are _you_ the reason he was so eager to take two weeks-worth of out-of-Kirkwall assignments off my hands?" Aveline let her forearms rest against the tabletop.

"I imagine he was angling for a holiday. The climate in the city could be… uncomfortable this time of year," Marian muttered, sounding bored.

"Uncomfortable?" Merrill blinked, confused, "but it has been beautiful and cool all week! Is it uncomfortable for Fenris because Tevinter is hot?"

"Now, now, kitten," Isabela chuckled, patting the clueless Dalish on the back. "Don't break your head over it. It just means our _sweet tosser_ is trying to avoid an awkward meeting, is all."

"Oh! Right then," Merrill gave a single nod, "because of Hawke and him having…" she spun the index fingers of both hands around each other. "Ow!" not two seconds later, she winced and ducked to look under the table.

"Oops!" Marian glared at her, "Me and my clumsy big feet; so sorry, Merrill. "

Merrill reached beneath the table to rub at her sore shin, "You could have just shushed me, you know. It's just Aveline, she won't say anything."

Aveline sighed beside Marian.

"I really just wanted this whole thing to go and die quietly in secret," Marian shifted uncomfortably and shot a glare in Isabela's direction. "I don't see why you had to organize this…this… I don't know _what_ this is supposed to be!"

"Hmm, well, I was hoping for the graphic details, but your mouth is clenched tighter than Aveline's arse." Isabela teased, pouring the Guard Captain a healthy dose of rum.

"Better it be that than loose and used up like yours," Aveline groused half-hearted, accepting the tumbler from Isabela.

"Ooh! Your creativity is rivaled only by your femininity, Ball-Stomper."

"Yes, because I've never been accused of being manly by you before, slattern."

"I've just gotten started, wait 'til I get drunker first—"

"—Is what you hear when you approach a sober man." Aveline interjected, a slight smirk curving the corners of her mouth.

"Aha! I knew you could do better," Isabela grinned and leaned forward, clinking her tumbler against Aveline's. "That's my girl!"

That managed to get a snicker out of Hawke. If only in the hopes that Aveline had been successfully distracted from asking too many questions. Isabela sent a meaningful look her way, not missing a beat in trading insults with the Guard Captain. All in good spirits, of course. Perhaps the idea of getting all the girls together to rib each other and drink wasn't so pointless after all. Maybe Isabela really did know a thing or two about coping. Hawke sat up, and gave Isabela a curt nod of acknowledgement, her mood a slight bit less morose than if she were left to her own devices.

When Aveline had first mentioned Fenris's request for outside work, she felt panic bubbling at the pit of her stomach. What if he never came back? But then, it occurred to her that not seeing each other for a while was actually the best thing. Who knows what she was liable to do or say if she ran into him too soon. She resolved the best approach was to take things one day at a time; she'd dealt with far bigger disappointments in the past four years, having lost father, brother, and home. By comparison, being rejected by a contrary, bitter man was about as significant as being besieged by a gnat.

She caught the end of something dirty Isabela muttered that caused both Merrill and Aveline to sputter and choke on their respective drinks. She had missed the innuendo, but the looks on both Aveline and Merrill's flushed, dribbling faces was comical enough to almost send her tumbling backwards off the bench. Hawke wrapped her arms around her sides, letting out a healthy cackling laugh that inevitably proved quite contagious; first sending Isabela into a fit of equally raucous laughter, then setting off Merrill into breathless giggles, and finally conquering Aveline who coughed into her fist, trying to disguise the strangled chuckles that bubbled up from her throat.

Yeah, she could manage this... It wasn't the end of the world, and she wasn't alone. Not really.

* * *

><p>End Part I<p> 


End file.
